Just One More
by Rojas Walrus
Summary: Roy Mustang hates himself. Riza Hawkeye hates Fridays. Both have ways of drowning out the misery of it all. Angsty one shot an from old concept that I rather like. Written because I hate Mondays and have need to write angst on them. Strong T


**COMRADES! ANOTHER GLORIOUS CAPS LOCK MONDAY HAS PRESENTED ITSELF TO US! And such which means it's time for me to write another angsty one-shot instead of doing my homework. No doubt I will be up until 12:00 again, so hoo-ray. I'm such a slacker. On the plus side my friend was able to give me a ride from seminary to school today so that's happy. FACT: There is no feeling like driving out of a church parking lot and blasting Snoop Dogg as loud as the speakers allow.**

**REVIEW! Please, it's honestly like heroin (I'm assuming), and regardless, I NEED feedback to improve as a writer, so any and all is appreciated, no matter how, brutal, honest, or pointless it may seem. IF YOU HATE IT TELL ME AND TELL ME WHY.**

Roy Mustang hated himself. He half wondered when it was that it started to be himself that he hated rather than just the man that he pretended to be. Meas had, of course, warned him that he could live a lie for only so long before he would look into the mirror and realize that it wasn't a lie any more. Well, he was looking in the mirror right now and he realized that the bastard was right.

Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair and looked miserably at his reflection. This was almost a Friday night ritual. He'd go and get changed for whatever it was that he was going to do, and while putting his tie on he'd size himself up. On come the self loathing.

He did not have an informant drop tonight, they rarely happened on Fridays anyway, so it would be to the bar tonight to indulge himself in one of his two favorite vices: booze and women. Either one of them helped him ignore the pain and had their pluses and minuses. The alcohol would give a comfortable haze of ignorant bliss, but with the common bar-slut he could, if just for one night, pretend that She was the one who was underneath him. With the lights out it wouldn't be too hard to imagine that her hair was gold, that her eyes were same dull shade of amber that Hers were. But then he would wake up and realize that it was not, in fact, Her, and he preferred the splitting hangover to that any day. So the alcohol it was.

If there was one day that Riza loathed above all others, it was Friday. Any other woman her age, anyone who had an ounce of common sense, would use Fridays to relax. But no. That wouldn't be fitting for Riza Hawkeye. Instead she sat her kitchen table and cleaned her guns as she waited for the phone to ring, inevitably being from some bar across town, telling her to pick Him up. She was sure all of them had her number memorized by heart by now.

And those were the good Fridays. She knew better than anyone else what it meant when he didn't end up drunk off his ass on these nights. It meant she would end up spending another night alone in bed, knowing that the only way she would ever get in his bed was when he was too damn drunk too realize what he was doing. To realize that the woman he was seducing wasn't one of those brainless bombshells that he loved so damned much.

He stared into the endless depths of his glass and took another long drink. Slamming the glass down onto the table he gasped at the liquid burning down his throat. It only took a glance at the barkeep to earn other glass full of the liquid fire. Which was probably a good thing, because in a few glasses he wasn't quite sure if he would be able to coherently ask for anything in a few more drinks.

He could already see the bartender go for the phone. It wouldn't be long before She would show up and haul his drunken ass back to his apartment.

Riza sped along the road with practiced precision, not have to worry about traffic due to the ungodly hour. She knew this way by heart, just as she knew the way to all the bars he frequented by heart. Whether fortunate or not, the bar he had ended up at that night was all the way across town, leaving Riza a good 45 minutes before she would arrive. Inevitably she would use this time, as she did the last she-dosen't-remember-how-many-times she had to come out here, to mentally prepare herself for His pitiful state and tell herself, no, _promise_ herself that tonight wouldn't end like all the other nights had.

He couldn't understand why She did this for him. He had been reduced to a pitiful lowlife drunk, if only on the weekends, and no one in that position deserved anyone as good as Her. Didn't She have anything better to do? (Another shot) What was it that women normally do on the weekends? Thoughts drifting to his sisters he immediately shoved those thoughts out of his mind. The idea of Her being with a man who _wasn't him_ alone called for another drink (and down it goes).

Maybe She loved him. And maybe he was coherent enough to get off the chair without falling to the ground. And maybe Maes was still alive. _I'd rather have her than Maes._ The thought slipped out into his mind before he could censor it and _couldn't believe he just thought that._ If anything it just proved to himself what a despicable man he was. No, She definitely didn't love him. Or even like him. Frankly he was surprised She could stand in the same room as him without vomiting in disgust. (The whiskey slid down his throat once again.)

"Sir, I think you've had enough."

Her voice was like magic, somehow rekindling a small hope which he thought was all but gone.

"Lieeuutennant? Whaaa t'ryou dooin' in a place like ttthhhisss?" The words were surprisingly coherent for one who had taken in as much liqueur as he had.

"Stop flirting and get up. Good god, Colonel, show yourself more respect than this. It's disgusting." She wasn't quite sure what had possessed her to say that but the look on his face had made her want to die on the spot. He had looked at her so… hopefully, and her mild insult had turned it into a look of shame and self pity. She wanted so much to take that look off His face, but she couldn't. She couldn't and she didn't even know why.

Laboriously she helped him into the car, his feet damn near dragging across. It didn't take much for his stupid boyish grin to reappear on his face; the second she put his arm around her shoulder, there it was again. She shivered at the thought of what her touch could do for him. _No, a woman's touch. I just happen to be the nearest convenient one. _As she slid him into the car and went to the other side to get in, He pouted at the loss of touch. Not wanting to be away from here for long, he rested his head in Her lap. And she just let Him. _What's the harm in it anyway? He's too drunk for it to mean anything anyway. Let Him sleep._

When they got back to His apartment, Riza had to drag Roy up the steps, unlock his door for him, and direct him to his bedroom. Even if He had been sober enough to do it all himself Riza would've done it herself anyway, if just out of routine. It was almost s if she had worn a rut in this apartment. She had promised herself that this night would go in the direction that they always did, but that tradition showed no sign of breaking. Now she would try to leave the bedroom and he would-

"Riza. Please stay." Those words always managed to knock the breath out of her, no matter how many times she heard them. They were so clear, despite his drunken state, as if it was the only thing he'd ever wanted in life. And she would, of course, forget all about her resolve, all about her promises to herself, and would let him strip the clothes off of her. Or, rather, try his best before the task proved too much for him in his drunken stupor. She would gladly help him.

And in the morning he awoke, with a painful migraine, having forgotten the whole thing.

**Hmmm. I really should edit this, but since the Vash wall-hanging is broken and now lies in a heap on the floor there is no one to convince me at gun point too. Except maybe my poster of Clint Eastwood (in all of his badassiveness) but he wouldn't do that to me. So I don't edit.**


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